


Prayer of the Ceaselessly Watched

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Everyone lives, Gen, Not quite fix-it but, Post-Canon, Someone hug Jonathan Sims, background jonmartin, short prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:49:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29702217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: “Ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing and see it…” Jon slid his hands down to loop around his wrist. He tightened his fingers around it, the skin still sensitive and scars thick. His motion of respectful prayer turned into a mournful licking of aged wounds. “see me… beg. Gift me your Knowledge again, today, to keep those around me safe… At least those that are left.”[What if the “ceaseless watcher” line was said more like a prayer than a shouted curse]
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	Prayer of the Ceaselessly Watched

**Author's Note:**

> [Based off this art by @disturbedgerblin on Tumblr](https://disturbedgerblin.tumblr.com/post/623179532886736896) God bless OP’s mind, first and foremost.
> 
> Second, I'd written this back in November but it never made it over here. Enjoy!

Most nights, Jon went to sleep in his clothes.

It—both the habit and discomfort—didn’t matter much anyway: Jon slept on a bed _far_ too small for both him _and_ Martin; slept in the archives down the hall from his own office, hearing the tape recorder whirring in the ringing silent nights; slept without dreams or even vivid, startling visions; never _actually_ regained the ability _to_ sleep; and, at the very bottom on his (well, _Martin’s_ ) list of worry, slept in his everyday work clothes. Which, as an insomniac, just made the act become Jon laying down with the sole outcome of adding more wrinkles to his shirt.

It made his morning routine— the only time he had to spend away from the Archives—shorter, far easier to complete without getting caught up in the _oh dear god what am I doing—what have I done._ Once Jon was at his proper desk chair, tape’s company uninvited but not always unwelcome, he figured he could hold off any true soul-searching for just another morning:

Go to their basement bedroom. Lay down with Martin and ignore his itching thoughts of causing accidental voyeurism in favor of Martin’s sweet, soothing company. (Attempt to) sleep. Forget every dream. Rinse, repeat, resent.

That morning, Martin was already up and out of bed. Jon slept against the wall now, since Martin had fallen on him more than a few times trying to climb out of bed in the pitch dark without his glasses; Jon was the one with perfect night vision (now).

Jon pulled himself to the end of the bed, swinging his legs over the iron bars and sliding himself up and over it. It was the most thrilling fence-jumping Jon had to look forward to those days. It was the only fence he’d ever have a chance to run into, actually. No white picket ones now for him and Martin. Only the cold, cracked, and chipped stones of the tunnels.

It was once offered to them that it _could_ be arranged for a white fence can be placed around Hill Top Road—but Martin sharply disagreed, and Jon didn’t want to risk it. Risk his arrangement.

With all the thrill of being in a home, a true home, with a man he considered one for so long—an amount of time physically unable to count, but sitting in Jon’s heart like an eternity—Jon feared he would forget to renew his promise. He would forget to prompt the Eye to remember the exchange: Jon’s sacrifice, details of which were kept secret and tucked into his quivering hands he clasped them against his waist slowly.

“Ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing and see it…” Jon slid his hands down to loop around his wrist. He tightened his fingers around it, the skin still sensitive and scars thick. His motion of respectful prayer turned into a mournful licking of aged wounds. “see _me…_ beg. Gift me your Knowledge again, today, to keep those around me safe… At least those that are left.”

For a moment, Jon closed his eyes—as if able to pause the incantation—to think of his friends; the ones who had died just rooms away, their voices still held as echoes in the walls; the ones whose living voices could only buzz through a phone receiver every few days, more and more unsure of what to say to the quaking voice on the other end; the ones that lived (and maybe died) far beyond his Sight; the ones that had nothing left of them _to_ See.

Their memories would flutter in clarity with the passing years, but the Eye never allowed him to forget the sharpness of their worst moments of suffering. Some days Jon hoped the blade of fear would cut deep enough to take them from him—but despite the relief of not _knowing_ he was missing them, he felt like it could be removing the genuine last piece of humanity he had scrambled to keep. Jon couldn’t put all of that responsibility—that of keeping him humane—on Martin.

That was the exact opposite of the purpose the entire “retirement plan” Jon had granted Elias. Knife drawn and willing to lunge forward into the man—the stolen shape of one—or let his arm swing back and find the space made by missing two ribs—

Jon opened his eyes again.

“See and find me weak, vulnerable, but sturdy and willing. Find me broken. Find mercy. Allow clarity in my visions and readings—for enough strength to withstand your great Open Door. Allow fullness in my Sight—but also within my hearing.” With the one side of the bed already ice cold beside Jon’s warm one, he didn’t want it to be a one-sided exchange. Sometimes a routine allowed for change. “Leave me to believe things I have never seen, but also can _not_ see—only hear. Allow me to believe all the fear and world scoring horrors you have shown me… But also allow me to believe _‘I love you’_ when it is said. And allow me to return the sentiment in truth as I know it is. As _you_ Know.”

Jon hated getting so emotional when he had essentially, voluntarily set himself up with a bore IV to the Eye. The promise was a healthy, flushing emergency dose of dread before Jon could even lay eyes on another human being that day. Martin unintentionally handed Jon over to the Lonely on the mornings he snuck out of bed before Jon’s “prayer”.

Jon cleared his throat and lifted his chin, keeping his eyes and mind as unfocused and ungrounded as possible.

“Ceaseless watcher, please watch _me_ suffer—and allow me to stand in the place of those you have wrung terror from before. Turn your gaze away from them and allow yourself to see only me. I am not only your Watcher. Let me be your Watched. Let me fill your desired horror: break me and fray me as I shudder to incoherence—something you can rewind and replay, if you wish. Outside of me, and what crosses the Institute, there isn’t much to see. Not like before, and you know that. My eyes are the best show. I know my way around. The Institute can’t run itself—and there will _always_ be more statements.”

The word was slick on Jon’s tongue, like he was salivating—and he _hated_ it. The Eye was definitely listening. Watching.

“Today, I pray to know myself and my limits,” Using Martin’s word felt like a small victory, but in the same way stepping in front of a train was a victory to stop it from hitting another stopped train up the track. “Also, I pray to remember that you may change them, change me, at will…

"Ceaseless watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing, and away from everyone else. Let them be free. Invisible. Undiscoverable. Know from me—about me—whatever you would like. I am your body and your servant,” Jon lowered his arms and took a slow, deep breath. He could hear Martin walking up the hall, hoping rising with Jon’s chest. The entire bed was cold by then. “but don’t make me be your grave. Amen.”


End file.
